When nineteen-year-old Emilia starts her first year at university, she's determined to leave her past behind and finally prove she belongs somewhere.
Architecture was supposed to be her fresh start-a place to disappear into floor plans and future dr...
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As soon as I step into the lecture hall, silence spreads like a wave. Pens pause mid-sentence, conversations halt mid-laugh. It's a rhythm I know well by now—predictable, precise. One of the few constants in a world that otherwise insists on shifting beneath my feet.
My heels echo softly across the tiles as I walk toward the front, and I keep my gaze ahead, never straying. That, too, is a conscious choice. Eye contact invites familiarity. And I can't afford that—not here. Not with them.
Still, I feel it.
That subtle pull.
I place my notebook and folder onto the desk in one smooth motion, my fingers already flipping to the correct page. I offer the class a brief nod of greeting, my voice crisp as I begin. "As you may have seen, I sent out your first assignment on Friday. It is to be completed by this coming Friday. The instructions are included in the email. That will be all."
It's a statement, not an invitation. There is no warmth in my tone, and certainly no trace of encouragement.
And yet—
A hand rises. Tentative. Fifth row. Male student. Young, obviously. Too young to know better.
"Yes?" I ask, raising one brow just slightly. A warning.
"I—uh—I just had a question about the assignment," he begins, and then proceeds to explain his confusion, carefully choosing his words as if each one might detonate.
I let him finish.
And then, I let silence answer him first.
It stretches, hollow and sharp. Only then do I speak, my voice even colder than before. "I have defined the task clearly. Further questions will not be necessary. You are all adults. If you wish to become architects, begin by learning to interpret language. That is part of the exercise."
His mouth opens, then closes. He nods. "Sorry," he mumbles.
The moment is over.
I turn away and begin the lesson.
Routine is a shield. I teach quickly, precisely, keeping the pace high. I do not slow down. I do not make room for uncertainty. I do not encourage dialogue. I work through the theory, sketches, and examples without pause. By the time I dismiss them, I've already returned my materials to my bag and made my way to the door.
But just before I step out, something makes me pause.
Her.
Emilia.
She's sitting in the third row today—as always. I didn't mean to look, but there she is. Her head tilted slightly as she speaks with the red-haired girl beside her. Tara. I learned her name last week.
Emilia's voice is too low for me to hear, but there's a softness to her expression that hadn't been there during class. A flicker of ease, perhaps. Something fragile and fleeting.
I don't linger.
Instead, I leave.
⸻
Outside, the September air greets me with a faint breeze, just enough to rustle the edge of my coat. I pull it tighter around me and cross the inner courtyard toward the library. I have exactly one hour before my next course begins.
The campus is already busy. Students move in little clusters, coffees in hand, laughter echoing between the stone walls. It's always felt like a world I observe rather than inhabit.
I pass the central fountain, still trickling despite the changing season, and make my way up the old marble stairs into the east wing. The library welcomes me with its familiar hush, the scent of paper and wood polish comforting in its own way.
I claim a desk in the far corner—always the same one—and pull out my laptop. There are emails to respond to. Papers to grade. A research proposal waiting for my notes.
And yet...
Before I open the first file, my eyes drift toward the window.
Outside, crossing the square, I see them again.
Emilia. Tara. And a boy I haven't seen before.
He's tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair and a grin that seems too easy for this early in the day. Emilia walks between them, listening quietly as Tara gestures animatedly.
Is he her boyfriend?
The question arrives uninvited, intrusive. And worse—irrelevant.
It doesn't matter.
It shouldn't matter.
But something about the way she carries herself—slightly withdrawn, a little too aware of her surroundings—stirs something in me. Familiarity, perhaps. Or memory.
I look away before they disappear from view.
⸻
Back in my office later that afternoon, I sit in silence. The light has changed; it filters in more softly now, catching dust motes mid-air. My schedule today is full—meetings, two more classes, a consultation with a doctoral candidate at five.
Still, the image of her lingers.
It isn't the first time.
Since the semester began, I've noticed her more often than I care to admit. Not because she's particularly loud or disruptive. Quite the opposite.
She's quiet. Careful. Almost too careful.
She watches more than she speaks. She flinches when addressed too directly. And something in her body language betrays the weight she carries—like she's fighting to hold herself together while the world insists she fall apart.
But that's none of my business.
I remind myself of that, over and over.
My job is to teach. To maintain distance. To lead.
And yet—
Some part of me wants to ask her.
Just once.
Are you sleeping? Are you eating? Are you alright?
